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  Abram rose to the height of Robert's parents. "I hope you'll come to the show this afternoon."

  "Show?" Robert's dad asked.

  "Oh, sorry," Abram said, "I assumed everyone knew. Word spreads so quickly in these small towns. I'm putting on a show in the Royal Theatre."

  "A talkie?" Robert's mom asked. Robert heard the mistrust in her voice.

  "No, Mrs. Steelgate. Not a talkie. A show of wondrous proportions." His smile widened. "Even Reverend Gibbs agreed to partake, so I guarantee it's not sinful. Merely a simple revelation of life's beauties. Dare I say, it might even be educational."

  She seemed to relax. Maybe they would go, Robert thought. Into the theatre, where the projector flashed pictures on the wall.

  "What are you going to show us?" Robert's dad asked.

  "A kaleidoscopic visual delight that I brought from the ancient tombs of Egypt." Abram bowed slightly. "Excuse me, I must prepare. It begins at two. There will be lemonade, tarts, and cookies for all. Mrs. Juskin and Mrs. Torence made the treats, kind hearts that they are."

  He took a couple of steps and then turned back suddenly. His face was solemn. "I am sorry to hear about the disappearance of your son. I sincerely hope he is found soon. My prayers are with him. And with you."

  Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Royal Theatre was a majestic hall that had been built fifteen years before, but had aged by a century. Robert hadn't been inside since the doors had been hammered shut two years ago. He was surprised how fixed up the parlor was now. Abram had rehung the grand pine doors, swept off the steps, and re-attached the head on the stone lion out front. It had been decapitated ages ago by a drunk driver from Eastend who'd lost control of his Model T.

  Robert's anticipation grew. Abram had said something about the tombs in Egypt. Would there be camels in the desert? Men with sabers flashing in the sun? Maybe there'd be mummies and pharaohs.

  Robert and his parents joined the line of people shuffling toward the theatre. It was taking forever to get in. They were going to miss the beginning. Why was everyone walking so slowly?

  Once inside, he was relieved to see that the show hadn't started yet. And it was as cool as a cave in the desert. He expected to hear water dripping from the walls and see stalactites and stalagmites jutting out like old, sharpened teeth. It was as though this were the first time in his life he'd ever been cool—a new, delicious sensation.

  People filed between two Roman-style columns in the foyer, stopping to pick up treats from the war widows, who handed out their baking as though it were gold. He received a glass of lemonade, an oatmeal raisin cookie, and a pat on the head.

  "It's nice of Mr. Harsich to do this," Robert's mom said. "And it's all free."

  He was surprised at his mother's words. Not in a hundred million years had he expected her to set foot in the theatre, and yet here she stood, sipping lemonade. He decided it was best not to point that out to her, lest she change her mind.

  "It's a good gesture." Robert's dad chomped down the last of his cookie and wiped the crumbs from his bottom lip. "People need a break, if only for an afternoon."

  They followed the crowd into the theatre, passing two mummy tombs on the way. A skeleton hand reached out of one, frozen in mid-grab. He'd seen them before when he'd sneaked into the Royal Theatre with his Uncle Alden. They weren't real, but he longed to peek inside. Paintings of pharaohs with scarab amulets decorated the walls. "Old Man Spooky"—his real last name was Spokes—had built this place, then lost it to the bank after something called "the big stock market crash." He'd also lost his wife to consumption. Now all Spooky did was drink, and sleep on the bench outside the hotel.

  Standing in the aisle, Robert couldn't see past his dad. He had a great view of people's backs, arms, and legs. He worried that he might be missing some action on the screen. The room was packed. Kids laughed and ate as many cookies as they could get their hands on. Most everyone was in their church clothes, lending an air of a special outing. This was wonderful fun, a party. They were make believing that the sun wasn't outside, that a drought wasn't waiting for them. This was a new world, a safe place.

  Robert's father cut a path to three velvet parlor seats. Robert took the one closest to the wall and thought: Sit down everyone. You're all blocking my view! He wished he had a voice as loud as a trumpet and the gumption to use it.

  They all continued chatting and laughing. A chandelier dangled high above, like an electrified web, pale lights flickering in the cool air. Robert glimpsed a flash of silver and gold at the front. He squirmed in his seat, trying different angles, but couldn't see anything else.

  He sat back, shivering, partly from the excitement. He cocked his head, and this time he saw the projection screen. His eyes widened. It looked like a giant mirror. The townspeople's reflections were long or fat, like in a carnival fun house. Snakes in gold twisted and writhed along its edges. And dead center, at the top, was a large gold scarab, its eyes two emeralds. Robert had read that pharaohs wore such amulets as a symbol of immortality. So this mirror had to be from Egypt.

  Colors shimmered in the mirror like rippling water. It's amazing! he thought, absolutely amazing! It looked as though he could walk right through the mirror into a rainbow world. When he gazed directly at the surface it appeared close enough to touch, but when he looked to the side, the mirror was where it was supposed to be—half a room away.

  Several red clay jars were stacked below it. They seemed to have writing on their sides. They reminded him of the broken jar he'd touched in the sandhills. He squinted at them, then a flash drew his attention. Two glass batteries, half the size of apple boxes, were wired to the mirror. Tiny bolts of captured lightning sparked inside. There was just too much to look at.

  The lights dimmed, then brightened. Abram appeared at the center of the stage, seemingly out of nowhere. A young woman shrieked, then covered her mouth and giggled. "Oh, sorry, I'm so sorry," she said. Men around her laughed, and Abram grinned. He waited until everyone took their seats, rubbing his gloved hands together. Soon there was only the squeaking of springs and scraping of feet.

  Abram gestured dramatically toward the large mirror. "The Mirror of All Things. This bit of metal and glass is as ancient as our civilization, as old as the Ark of the Covenant. Maybe older. It will show you whatever you want to see."

  "What's this about?" Robert asked. "I thought it was going to be an Egyptian show." Neither of his parents took their eyes off the mirror to answer.

  Abram pointed, and the emeralds on the golden scarab glowed brightly. "Oh, Mirror of All Things, show us what we dream."

  The lights dimmed all the way this time, and the room grew dark as night. A long, low noise reverberated through the walls. A familiar sound. After a few moments of slow struggle, Robert recognized it as the whistle of a distant train. It was the eerie cadence of time going by, of journeying to another country, of things passing on. It made him feel tired, as though he was about to slip into a dream.

  Then the mirror flashed. The people of Horshoe caught their breath.

  "I see rain," a man exclaimed a few seats away. "Glorious rain."

  "And flowers," a woman said, breathlessly.

  "Dolls!" a girl peeped. "A closet full of dolls!"

  Robert didn't see anything. The others gaped at the mirror, faces slack-jawed or agog with wonder. They were seeing something, but there was nothing for him. Just a dull gray. The mirror wasn't even reflecting light.

  "Matthew," he heard his mother saying quietly. "Oh, Matthew. My dear Matthew."

  Robert swallowed, an acidic taste in his mouth. His mom's faint voice was terrible and sad. Hearing his brother's name made Robert's guts flutter.

  Abram stood, hands behind his back, watching the crowd. He looked happy, apparently content that everything was working properly. Robert still saw nothing—no flowers, no rain, no Matthew. The mirror must be broken, he thought.

  Just then the gray behind the
glass began rolling like storm-laden clouds. Winged shapes circled inside shadows. He couldn't look away; the mirror was the only thing that existed.

  A figure appeared and moved close to the mirror's edge, walking with a lopsided, limp. Robert dug his fingers into his legs as the form got closer. Go away! he thought. Go away! He heard grunting and a low rumbling, like ice cracking on a lake. He could make out the shape of a man, near enough that Robert heard his dragging footsteps. Finally he emerged from the fog. He was wearing an army uniform.

  Robert's heart thumped hard in his chest. It was his Uncle Edmund, who had died so long ago, whose picture Robert had committed to memory.

  This was Edmund during the war, alive and breathing but badly injured. He had been hit by shrapnel; his uniform was tattered and bloody. He reached out, fumbled momentarily, and found the frame of the mirror, and it creaked as he leaned on it. Behind Edmund was the battle-field: explosions blossomed brightly, sparks of gunfire dotted the land, smoke blended into storm clouds, wounded men screamed in pain.

  Edmund looked back at the battlefield, then out again through the mirror. His face showed the confusion of a man who had staggered into unfamiliar territory. He squinted, scanned the crowd. He can see us! Robert thought.

  Edmund found Robert, caught his eye for a moment, then swallowed hard, leaning forward so it seemed he might come right through the mirror. He waved weakly, his hand rising slightly above his hip. His mouth moved but produced no sound. Robert thought he was trying to tell him something.

  I'm listening, Robert thought, I'm listening.

  A shell shattered the ridge behind Edmund, sending a blast of heat over Robert. Edmund struggled to stay upright, gesturing desperately with one hand. His voice was muffled when he yelled, and it sounded as though he was saying "Ay-vil! Ay-vil!" He pointed at Abram, who had been standing a few feet from the mirror. "Ayvil! Ayvil!" Then Robert heard him more clearly: "Evil!"

  Abram must have heard too, because his smile faded. He charged at the mirror.

  No! Robert wanted to yell, but he couldn't force the word out of his mouth. Abram plunged his hand through the filmy barrier of the mirror and pierced Edmund's chest. It exploded with crimson light. Edmund screamed, his head thrown back, his hands thrust out in front, one flailing right through the mirror. Then he disappeared.

  The mirror went black, and the audience woke with a shudder, as if startled by a loud noise. They glared at the stage like children whose toys had been taken away from them.

  "The Mirror of All Things has finished its display," Abram spoke, bowing. The lights brightened. Abram ran his hands across the glass, glanced at Robert, then back at the mirror.

  In that moment Robert felt wrath, shot like a bolt toward him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The mirror now reflected two hundred and fifty-nine bewildered faces, people who looked as though they had just woken up in a strange place. Abram adjusted a lever behind the mirror, then laid it flat. Robert couldn't see the surface any more, but it caught the chandelier's lights and cast them onto the ceiling, studding it with stars.

  Abram turned to the townspeople. His smile was gone, and he seemed more like a man about to deliver a eulogy than perform a magic trick.

  "I'm not finished yet. I have another surprise about something dear to your heart. The very future of this community." He put his hands together as if he were about to pray. "Forgive me for becoming serious during this entertainment, but my topic is very important. I have but one message: Together we can end this drought."

  The words were like stones cast into a pool; astonishment rippled through the crowd and over Robert.

  "What does he mean?" his father asked.

  "Allow me to explain," Abram said. "Many of you know me from church, and others have met me at my farm, but no one knows that I am, first and foremost, a meteorologist." He gestured toward the ceiling. "Meteorology, for those unfamiliar with the term, is the study of the atmosphere, of weather patterns, so that we can accurately predict the weather. It is a science in its infancy. I am a scholar who has learned how to influence the weather. What makes snow, hail, wind?" He paused.

  Robert heard the wind whistling outside. He recognized that Abram was like the reverend, building words into a sermon.

  "Long have I sought to understand these things. I have developed hypotheses that I have kept from my colleagues. Secrets. Horshoe is the perfect place to test my theories. With your help, we can make it rain as often and as hard as you wish. It is, of course, too late for this year's crop, but next year at this time we will be sitting with bins so full of wheat, and fields so stacked with hay, that the whole world will look on in amazement."

  He looked from face to face; his eyes pierced Robert, then passed by. In that moment he felt Abram's intensity, his belief in his own words. Potential, that's what Robert saw in those eyes. Promise.

  "I know. I know. Fool's gold, you're thinking! You'd be daft not to." Abram's eyes narrowed. "But you are also thinking: What if he can make it rain? What if next year we could grow the crops we deserve?

  "I will bring rain!" He pounded his fist into his palm, startling Robert. "I guarantee it. But only with your help. You've already witnessed the impossible reflected in a mirror. Soon the impossible will be real. Your fields will be green. I will show you how."

  As the lights dimmed, Abram reached into one of the clay jars that had been sitting on the stage and cast a handful of red dust over the mirror. From a second jar Abram withdrew a palmful of blue dust. He tossed it into the floating red cloud. A cinnamon smell filled Robert's nostrils. He breathed it in, salivating. The dust thickened into a fog-like smoke that split into three different trails. They glowed green, yellow, and violet, then changed colors and curled into a cylinder, which rotated, reminding Robert of a dazzling kaleidoscope. Again, the lonely wail of a distant train. He blinked and began to feel tired.

  The cylinder was now brownish red. It grew to about twelve feet in height, a tower of earth-red bricks. Robert couldn't figure out where it had come from. It looked solid enough. How could Abram make it appear from a handful of dust?

  "This is Raithgan, the rainmill," Abram said. Four white vanes appeared near the top of the tower and spun counter-clockwise. Abram pointed, and the spinning stopped. "Here"-he gestured at three spokes sticking out of the vanes—"are the containment filters that will hold a special liquid I call vive, short for vivification. Vive causes an atmospheric reaction that leads to the formation of heavy cumulous clouds, followed by rain, to put it simply."

  It didn't sound all that simple to Robert. It was something only scientists would understand.

  Tiny rain clouds formed over the tower, striking it with lightning bolts. Robert's arm hair stood straight up. It was real miniature lightning. It had to be. Like the kind he'd seen in Frankenstein, a talkie Uncle Alden had taken him to.

  "The process seeds the clouds, making them water-bearing. The rainmill will continue to manufacture rain clouds, until the motors are shut off. It will be a perpetual rainmaking machine." He gestured again and the image froze. He turned back to the people.

  "Impossible, right? I've shown you pretty pictures, tossed out some big words. You need something concrete. Something that isn't mist in the air." He passed his hand through the image of the rainmill. "You will have it.

  "I have had numerous meetings with Mr. Samuelson, the manager of Horshoe Savings and Loan." Abram nodded at the banker and his wife, sitting in the front row. Cigar smoke plumed out of Samuelson's mouth. "I have shown him blueprints and projected crop yields. As you know, bankers are hardheaded when it comes to money, but we have hammered out an agreement. I'd like to ask him to come up and announce the terms of that deal."

  Samuelson rose and lumbered toward the stage, his cigar flaring red. People in the front row pulled back their feet to avoid injury. Pompous, Robert thought. That was a word that summed up everything about Samuelson. Pompous, swaggering pooh-bah.

  The banker climbed the stairs a
t the middle of the stage, strode over to Abram, and turned to the audience. He wore a dress coat with tails; a large red sash held back his protruding stomach. Samuelson removed the cigar, tapped the ashes.

  "I have examined Mr. Harsich's proposal with great care." His voice was deep and rough, vocal cords scarred by smoke. "I believe the rainmill is authentic. Its construction will create untold economic growth in our community. As long as a work crew is formed to aid Mr. Harsich, I will personally put every interest and loan payment due from those workers on hold until this date next year."

  "My God," Robert's dad mumbled. "He can't be serious."

  Heads turned, people muttered questions. Robert saw that Abram's and Samuelson's faces were split by wide, childlike smiles; the banker winked at Abram. The crowd's disbelieving noises grew to a senseless cacophony, so loud that Robert was tempted to cover his ears.

  A man raised his arm and waved it. The din receded into a hissing of whispers and then silence.

  "Yes," Abram said gently. "You have a question?"

  "How do we know this thing will actually work?" the man asked.

  The crowd drew a collective breath in shock. Robert squirmed off his seat and stood, leaning against the wall. The speaker was Uncle Alden. His voice sounded distant and slightly garbled.

  "I've read about other rainmakers who used airplanes and such to seed clouds. Far as I know, they never had any success."

  "What's your name, sir?" Abram asked.

  "Alden Bailey."

  "Well, Mr. Bailey, you asked a good question. Thank you for that. I'm glad you asked it. But it's a question that will be answered only in time. I'm afraid everyone will need a little patience, too. When Monday's edition of The Horshoe Times comes to your door there will be a special article outlining our plans and the conditions of Mr. Samuelson's deal. I believe all this business can be dealt with satisfactorily on Monday. In the meantime, enjoy your lemonade and treats."